In Justice We Trust
by jumpingjaxx13
Summary: The trial was over and the truth has been revealed...mostly. The phantom's past continues to be shrouded in mystery, and it seems that it takes a certain touch to get to him. Something that Blackquill, of course, has. Now that he is free from prison and hunting him down, will he be able to keep up as he pieces together just who the Phantom is? (haha bad summary. sorry)


**Here's another Blackbright for you all! This one is actually extending past one chapter *cheering in the distance* This is an idea I had on the infamous Phantom's past and how Blackquill's future will play out now that he is free from both prison and worrying about said killer. Let me know what you think! Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.**

"Я извиняюсь!"

Using two fingers, Alec Thornwell pushed his glasses up, holding them to his nose for a moment before dropping his hand once again. This wasn't the first time he had begun to rattle off in his native tongue, baffling the usually keen mind of the detective. Why he had been assigned to interrogate this convict in the first place, he hadn't the slightest idea. He couldn't speak a lick of Russian, the man obviously had taken no liking to him, and he was getting less than nowhere.

"Я извиняюсь! Отец, мне не удалось вас! Я никогда не хотел никого обижать! Пожалуйста, не делайте мне больно! Я не могу взять это! Все так далеко! Ты меня видишь? Я плачу! Ты сломал меня! Fix меня! Fix меня!"

With a sigh, he returned his gaze to the man across from him, taking in his disheveled appearance. During the trial, a select group of seemingly unlikely allies succeeded in tearing his defenses bit by bit, leaving him a mess. Everything that made the Phantom who he was had been ripped to shreds, the pressure of his controlled emotions finally bubbling over the breached walls. Between his tears, shouts, and episodes of near hysterical delusion, it was ever so apparent that he was broken. Something beyond what he (or anyone else for that matter) could be able to fix.

Rising from his seat, he offered him a curt nod before exiting the room. Once the door was shut behind him, he leaned against the one-way glass, wiping nervous beads of sweat from his brow. He had been fully aware of his…unique characteristics, but he hadn't expected it to be that exhausting.

 _Of course it is. He's the_ Phantom _!_ Groaning loudly, he ran his hands run over his face, eyes flickering open to meet those of his supervisor.

"Any luck?" she inquired, staring up at him with harsh blue eyes. It was of her request that he try and work with the spy, if only to see just how tough of an egg he was to crack. From his experience, he was less of an egg and more of a boulder.

Thornwell shook his head. "I'm afraid not. He won't talk to me. I don't think he trusts me," he confessed. "Nobody is going to get through to him, ma'am. He won't open up to anybody."

Lucille Martin was an intelligent woman. Even before she had taken charge of his case, she knew that there were certain boundaries that needed to be overcome. In allowing her subordinate to take over gave her precious time to monitor just exactly what they were dealing with. Needless to say, she was impressed. "Don't worry. I know someone."

Simon Blackquill did not usually concern himself with minor things such as the aftermath of a case. The trial had been done, the sentence given. The elusive Phantom would be executed within eight years' time, giving them plenty of opportunity to decipher exactly what he was working for. What exactly he was. This was a special case, though, seeing as how the recent years of his life had been dedicated to his capture- the taste of betrayal still bitter on his tongue. When he was invited to come and take a crack at him, he was more than happy to comply.

The very next day, he entered the building alone, having left Taka under the care of a few friends. Though Mrs. Martin spoke, he elected not to listen, attentions instead drifting off behind the one-way glass. Waiting behind the door for his consumption was the infamous Phantom, already donned in bland prison garb. Through all of the faces and lies, he wasn't sure what he expected to find underneath, but it wouldn't have been that.

The Phantom was young, appearing to be in his early-mid twenties, meaning that he was naught but a pubescent teen when he first murdered Metis Cykes. From his outside observations, he noticed that his frame was thin and lithe, heavy bags feeling the weight of gravity under his swollen red eyes. The irises were barely tinted with blue, almost pale enough to appear silver, and he was crowned with a thick, messy mop of snowy locks.

A blank canvas. Someone that could become anything.

Waving away her warnings and advice, he slipped into the room, assuming his seat as he continued to watch the boy carefully. The change in atmosphere was instantaneous. Trained muscles tensed reflexively, breath hitching treacherously in surprise. At this point, Simon was unsure if it was refreshing or infuriating to see genuine emotion from the convicted spy. The stone that learned to laugh. How cute.

"Phantom-dono," he stated, breaking the silence between them. "It has been a long time. I suspect that the authorities have been treating you well?" Whether or not he deserved that kind of respect was another question, though. When all he received was an absent nod from the man across from him, he pursed his lips slightly in dissent.

"Rumor has it that you've been causing trouble again. How expected," he mused, leaning forward onto the table. Blue eyes flickered downward almost nervously before an audible gulp was heard. From what he could remember from Mrs. Martin's forewarnings, he had become quite the timid person. "You know you won't get away with that with me. I suggest you start talking." Just in case, he had a Russian-to-English dictionary on hand. He was getting answers one way or another, and the man formerly known as Fulbright was fully aware of that.

Silence echoed through the room, the only sound being the faint static of the patient recorder, prepared to note their every breath. Eventually, pale lips parted, the slightest of hiccups preceding the words. "I…It hurts, Prosecutor Blackquill," he confessed, voice rough. Tears were welling up in his eyes again, but rather than a storm being released, he was graced with a single droplet.

How wonderful.

"These…these _emotions,"_ he spat, brow furrowing in confusion. "How do people handle them? How can you let them run free without losing your mind?" The aforementioned blue eyes trailed back up, the pain and bewilderment so clear in them that it almost took Blackquill aback. He didn't need Athena here to know that this was real.

"We've never known anything different," he stated plainly, holding the watery gaze as solidly as he could. "You truly are one of a kind, Phantom-dono, and not in a good way."

With a shaky nod, said phantom spared a laugh. "Heh….I suppose you're right. There _is_ nobody like me. Not anymore…" His face contorted in pain and he nearly clamped a hand tightly over his mouth. Simon leaned forward further. This could be interesting.

"What is it? What do you mean by 'not anymore?'" If there was something he was hiding, it was definitely worth uncovering.

"I…" the younger cut himself off, diverting his eyes once again, subconsciously rubbing over where the bullet had entered his body. Their snipers didn't miss. This was a warning. "I am safe, right?" What a foolish question. He was a man on death row- nothing about him was safe! Still, the slight reassurance was all he needed in his cursedly broken state.

"Yes," Blackquill replied after a moment of consideration. When a snail was about to break the barrier between its shell and the rest of the world, one did not want to scare it back in, yes? "You are safe. Now, tell me everything. If you leave a single detail out, I'll tear you to shreds." While he couldn't actually do that, the threats were a part of their formerly friendly banter- something that would hopefully invoke some trust.

Nodding, the slightest of smile tugged on the Phantom's lips. This was all so familiar, and he would never have it again. Blackquill was hardly the type to take up enough interest in someone to do what 'Fulbright' had done for him. As memories collected in his conscience to retell the tale, he felt a terrible nauseating twist in his gut. The blood…the shadows…the mask…

 _Father will never love you._

He swallowed thickly before clearing his throat. "I hope you're taking notes because I hate to repeat myself," he teased halfheartedly before letting his eyes fall shut again in recollection.

"My name is XI30B. I am twenty two years of age, and I was not born. I was bred."

 **Soo, what did you think? Was that enough of a cliffhanger for you? ;P Reviews are love!**


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